the season of old bones
continues to melt away. a
new year may be filled with
transgressions or virtue. a
ray of sunshine may not heal
low spirits. a malaise cannot
hinder a jubilation of gladness.
the clairvoyant cannot reveal
names of the unborn. is this
the agitation of a god or the
panic of purgatory? is this
the search of a vanishing soul?
one may while away the dog
days or lie torpid through the
wintertide. is this a cynical line
between a bloom and a harvest?
old bones carry the burden of
the gravity of a wandering star.
these excursions into a vault of
heaven leave a twisted carcass,
yet gratify an old bag of bones.

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